


Time’s Fool

by RuinsPlume



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Community: rs_games, M/M, Marauders' Era, Oral Sex, R/S Games 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinsPlume/pseuds/RuinsPlume
Summary: R/S Games 2016 - Day 9 - Team Time
It’s only been half an hour since he last shagged Remus Lupin, but already Sirius is beside himself with wanting to do it again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Brighty18 for the beta, and for her fabulous modship. The prompt for this fic was a quote from the Buddha: “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future; concentrate the mind on the present moment.”

It’s only been half an hour since he last shagged Remus Lupin, but already Sirius is beside himself with wanting to do it again.

The problem is that Remus is sleeping. Or no, the problem is that Remus is sleeping naked and delicious and spooned up behind him, one arm draped heavily across Sirius’s waist. No, the real problem is that Remus must not be awakened under any circumstances, not even for more sex. Sirius _promised._

It’s only in the last six months—since they started doing _this_ , actually—that Sirius has learned that the first night after full, Remus is in too much pain to really sleep, despite the potions Pomfrey gives him. It’s on the second night that exhaustion finally overtakes his pain. That’s tonight, and Remus has allowed Sirius into his bed on the strict condition that Sirius let him rest.

Sirius checks his watch, his wizard-coming-of-age pocket watch that he has owned for all of one week. It arrived on his birthday accompanied by neither note nor card, but he’s carrying it around anyway because he’s seventeen now, and he’s a wizard, so he should bloody well have a fucking pocket watch. Besides, it’s a nice one, with goblin work on the case, and Sirius’s own constellation, Canis Major, appearing on the watch face whenever the real stars are visible in the night sky. Right now, his star is just coming into view, right beside the tiny Roman numeral three.

It’s only 11:48! He’ll have to lie here for another _six hours and forty-two minutes_ before he’s allowed to wake Remus up and blow him again. And at that point, all of Gryffindor tower will be up, so he’ll have to be quick about it. He and Remus might be just a tad late for Transfiguration, though, because first they’ll have to taste and touch and suck and kiss and come, fast and a little bit dirty from the hurried secrecy of it, with James and Peter tramping around outside the curtains at the end. Six hours and forty- _one_ minutes, then, of waiting to get Moony’s cock in his mouth. Or his cock in Moony’s mouth. Or Moony’s fingers in his mouth and up his arse. Or Moony’s arse in his...

Right. Sirius needs a different strategy. He is rock hard and it’s only been half a fucking hour. And he can’t get out of bed and toss off somewhere else, because Remus’s arm is draped across him, and well, there it is. Remus’s forearm slung across Sirius’s belly is such a wondrous thing that Sirius is willing to stay here until his balls turn blue—which should be any minute now—just to examine, by the slice of moonlight leaking through improperly closed drapes, the miracle of Moony’s arm. The dark gold hairs that curl so lushly across it. The skin dotted with just a few freckles left over from summer, and latticed with scars that are mostly invisible beneath that lovely hair, but easy to feel when traced with fingertips. The scars feel like the striations of raw silk, both smooth and harsh at once. And, like silk, they are infinitely caressable. Touchable and touchable again, just to see if touching them really feels that good, and it does.

The birthday watch shimmers, hands winking out from behind a passing cloud. It’s 12:06. Sirius has spent over fifteen minutes lost in Moony arm appreciation, then, so that’s something. He might even be able to fall asleep now, because he isn’t quite so hard anymore, and contemplating Moony’s arm has made him happy. Because Moony’s arm across him is just one limb of the best thing that’s ever happened to Sirius, and he’s not going to fuck it up.

Or rather, he’s not going to fuck it up _again_.

At the thought of the last fuckup, the truly-terrible-even-for-Sirius-Black fuckup to end all fuckups, the remainder of his erection wilts. He feels his magic leave his body like a flock of startled birds, and then his body leaves his body too, chasing after all those purple iridescent wings until it’s just his thoughts and his feelings left behind. Sucked down into the muck of the bad lake he carries around inside him. These days that lake is mostly swamped by the thing he did last year, the truly terrible thing.

He’d just wanted Regulus to come back to him. Regulus had been trailing around after Mulciber and Avery and _Snape_ —and Sirius couldn’t stand it anymore. He could see, even at the distance enforced by Regulus, how huge his brother’s need for his newfound cronies was. Huge and old and impossible to fill. Sirius knows that need as intimately as if he’d had his arms around his brother, because Regulus’s need for bigger friends is nearly identical to Peter’s need of the other three Marauders, and especially James, whom Peter needs with something bordering on desperation. A desperation Sirius watches and touches and wonders through every day. But he cannot bear to see it in Regulus: those baby Death Eaters are not the Marauders, and Snape is not Prongs.

After the argument with his brother, Sirius had felt so powerless and trapped, so enraged at his inability to make Regulus _see_. And in that state of wild impotent fury, the obvious solution suddenly seemed to be that he should tell Snape how to get down the tunnel. Get Snape away from Regulus, and the problem would be solved. 

_There is something wrong with me,_ Sirius thinks for the thousandth time. _Something Siriusly wrong_. Regulus has it too, something Regulusly wrong, but it’s the same wrong thing in both of them. Both of them tend to forget that they’re no longer trapped in Grimmauld Place with Orion and Walburga, and that unlike at home, out here in the rest of the world they have the power to make other people feel things. Out here in the rest of the world they have the power to make other people hurt and bleed and even die. But because Sirius has this Siriusly wrong thing in his brain, he had forgotten that.

He’s had nightmares about it ever since: the executioner’s axe slicing into Moony’s sweet neck while Sirius holds him down, sobbing but unable to move. He wakes from these dreams bathed in the stink of terror-sweat, the sheets soaked with just how much House of Black he still carries, like a tortoise lugging around its inseparable shell. When Sirius dreams it on a night that Remus sleeps beside him, it’s Remus who wakes him out of it, guides him to whichever bed they weren’t in and holds him against the dry sheets until Sirius stops shaking. If Remus asks what the nightmare was about, Sirius lies. Remus knows he’s lying, and lies about the fact that he knows. They both live with that. Remus has forgiven him once and Sirius does not want to push his luck with any conversation that might entail asking Remus to forgive him again. Just in case Remus gives a different answer.

Even thinking about these nightmares brings out the stench of them. Sirius huffs, trying to clear the smell from his nose, and checks his watch again, surprised to see that it’s 1:30. It’s easier, it seems, to get lost in the pain of self-recrimination than to get lost in the happiness of Remus alive and asleep beside him. And Remus is here, unbelievably, it sometimes seems to Sirius. Here, with his bare thighs spooning Sirius’s arse, with his naked chest pressed against Sirius’s back. He’s truly here. Sirius shifts just a little, searching for the brush of Remus’s nipples against his shoulder blades.

Even in sleep, those nipples are as hard and swollen as ripe gillyweed seeds. It would be so easy to roll slowly over, to take each one in turn between his teeth, suck hard on each one until the drug—which is the sound Remus makes when Sirius does that—comes pouring out. A sound you wouldn’t think Moony had in him. A whimper, an actual _mewl_ , so hungry and fragile and pleading that the first time Sirius heard Moony make that noise, he fucking came in his pants, right there in a broom cupboard.

And yeah, he’s nearly that hard again now, thank you. He slides one hand around his cock. Not stroking, just holding, allowing a little of the pressure to ease off into his hand. Maybe he can trick himself like this, relax his prick into thinking he’s going to get off, even though he’s not, but at least he’ll be calmer about it. Except that now of course he _is_ stroking himself, working his foreskin the way Moony does it, except the way Moony does it is even better than Sirius’s own hand, because Moony is— _fuck_ , Moony is stirring against him, that’s what, and Sirius had better STOP, _right now_ , because Remus must not wake up, and especially not to Sirius tossing off. It’s a fucking miracle he hasn’t woken up already. And Sirius has to keep his promises to Remus, especially now.

He puts his wanking hand against his mouth and sucks his knuckles. He puts his other hand over his heart and tries to calm down. _Throbbing cock, that’s all, just blood flowing around in there, nothing to see here folks, move along. Aching balls._ This is what Moony taught him to do, to just notice what’s happening. _Hole full of want opening inside me. Wanting Moony. Aching cock._ It was during a conversation he and Remus had last term in the library, Remus’s eyes suddenly appearing over the top of the huge tome he’d been studying. _Comparative Religion in Muggle Populations_ , some shite like that.

“Listen to this, Padfoot,” he’d said, and without waiting to see if Sirius was listening or not, he'd begun to read aloud. Sirius _was_ listening, especially since Remus had only just begun speaking to him again.

“‘This approach’ —this is Buddhists in India, Padfoot— ‘regards the experience of physical pain as simply a flow of discrete sensations. Through noticing the qualities of the sensations themselves, the pain can then be experienced directly, rather than in the context of one’s ideas about it.’”

“Sounds like loads of fun,” Sirius had said, like a complete plonker, but even as the words were leaving his mouth, he realized that Remus was telling him something important. Not about the Muggle Studies book. About _Remus_.

“Have you tried it?” he asked, quickly enough that his first answer could almost not have happened.

“I do it every time I transform,” Remus said. “But I didn’t know it was a Buddhist thing. I thought I was the only one who did it.”

“What do you do, then? When you’re in pain?”

“Just what it says here. I categorize the sensations that are happening in me. For as long as I can. And then I don’t think so much about what’s coming next.”

Sirius was sitting straight up in the library chair by then because Remus never talked about this. He never, ever described what transformation felt like for him, other than to say _It hurts_ and _It’s exhausting_. Back before they became animagi, back when Remus still woke up a pulpy mess, the other three hadn’t paid much attention to anything but the mess of him. And to keeping him amused in the hospital wing, bringing him puddings and doing their homework beside his bed until Pomfrey said he could go back to the dorms. But once they began running with him every full, and his injuries became only a tenth of what they’d been before, all three of them began to notice Remus’s _face_ the next morning. Then they wondered why they hadn’t understood earlier that the damage came not only from what the wolf inflicted on Remus’s body, but from the transformation itself: the rearranging of his very cells, his consciousness. Pain that had nothing to do with with the wolf’s teeth and claws.

“Categorize the sensations how?” Sirius had asked. Carefully. Because it was so soon after Remus had forgiven him. Forgiven him only because, Remus had said, he couldn’t bear to leave for hols without having done it. 

“I just name what’s happening to me,” Remus said. Still holding the Muggle Studies book over the lower half of his face. “Just like the book says. I say to myself, _‘Stretching, tearing. Burning, breaking, ripping. Crushing. Burning.’_ Like that. I just keep naming what’s happening to me—” and then his face disappeared entirely behind the book— “until it gets so overwhelming that I don’t have human language anymore.”

And Sirius had understood then that this conversation was part of the conditions of forgiveness. That if Remus was going to truly forgive him, he was also going to tell him, so that Sirius would never forget, that being a werewolf was, in its own way, sacred. Because the hell of it belonged to Remus alone, and for Sirius to trespass on that hell and use it for some other purpose—to wield its power himself, or to use it as a threat, or as a weapon—was to trespass on everything Remus had made sacred in himself in compensation. And if Sirius did not see this, then sooner or later he would get Remus killed.

He felt so ashamed then that he wanted to become Padfoot right there in the library; trade in his human feelings for the dog’s. Padfoot’s shame would be just as intense, but closer to the surface and more easily soothed. He couldn’t, of course, be Padfoot then, so he did the next best thing. He got down on his human hands and knees and crawled across the yard of carpet between them and put his shamed head in Remus’s lap.

And after an unbearably long while, Remus put down his book and began scratching Sirius’s scalp. Almost idly, as if the gesture had no particular importance. As if it were not, in fact, the sign that they could continue after all.

Sirius gropes around in the bed sheets for the watch. 3:00 a.m. It’s worthwhile to know, he supposes, that all he has to do to kill a badly-timed hard-on _and_ while away a sleepless night is contemplate the nature of his sins against Moony. The only problem with that strategy, however, is that now he feels like dying. Sirius has inside himself the same impossible sinkholes of need as Regulus, those uncrossable lakes, their murky bodies weighted down with rage and hurt and longing. Sometimes Sirius thinks he does nothing but spend his life trying to persuade the people he loves to just fucking _distract_ him from all those shitty sodden places. Regulus was the first to be able to do it. And then James. Peter sometimes. Moony the most, because when their bodies are together, when they’re making the magic that is their sex together, Sirius feels Moony’s streaks of gold and red and orange across the Black holes in his own sky, Moony’s colors reflected in the waters of his own bottomless lake, and then he remembers that there might be better places in his own body, and his spirit, that Remus can take him. Does take him. 

Before he can stop himself, he turns over in the bed, coming face to face with Remus sleeping.

The wonder of Moony sleeping. A Moony in repose is a rare thing; a gift, a vision. When he is neither concentrating nor worrying over something. Watching Moony sleep is even better than watching Moony laughing (though Sirius loves that, so deep and unexpected is his laughter). Watching Moony sleep might be as good as watching Moony lose it completely because Sirius knows just how to touch him. Maybe even better, because unlike the transient wonder of Moony coming apart in Sirius’s hands, the wonder of Moony unguarded and asleep goes on and on. In this state, Sirius can simply look on him and love him for as long as he wants. Sirius can drink him in for as long as he wants, drink him and drink him and only then realize that part of what’s Siriusly wrong with him is that he’s spent his entire life being thirsty. 

He is seventeen years old, he is hopelessly bent, and his parents hate him. His beloved brother is no longer speaking to him. He has been disowned from an aristocratic line and disinherited from an ancient fortune. He has Siriusly wrong things inside him that he doesn’t know how to fix. He is a mess, deeply and probably permanently so, and yet when Remus sighs in his sleep and snuggles in so that his nose hits Sirius’s forehead, none of it seems to matter. Or it matters only in the way a single star matters in an entire universe. When Sirius feels Remus’s sleep-breath warming his face, when he looks down at Remus’s dark-gold eyelashes, at his slightly parted and so-suckable lips, then Sirius remembers that he loves more people than he hates, loves them with a passion that would frighten him in its intensity except it feels too good. He remembers that he is an animagus and a powerful wizard. He remembers that he is loyal and brave and bright and handsomely fey to the point of being beautiful. He remembers that he is lucky enough to still be Moony’s dog.

Remus stirs, tightening his arm around Sirius and shuffling instinctively toward his body heat. Those long legs, with their delicious golden fur, brush against Sirius’s cock and send it right back into action. Sirius can’t see what time it is anymore because his watch got left somewhere in the bedclothes behind him when he turned over, and there’s no way he can get it without shifting away from Remus. Which is not an option, not when Remus’s thigh is nudging the tip of his prick, not when Remus’s throat is so nearly within licking range for Sirius’s tongue. Not when the particular Moony smells of sleep and sex and healing are wafting over him like...well, there’s _nothing_ that they’re like, nothing they could possibly be compared to. They are the smells he loves best in the world, that’s all. But he will _not_ wake Remus up. He will wait, close beside him, pressed against him in an anguish of anticipated pleasure. He will catalogue each physical sensation, just like Remus does.

_Want you want you want you. Swelling heat of want you. Swelling heat in mouth and cock and belly_

_Want to lick your neck and mouth and nose everywhere, lick up inside your nostrils, deep in your mouth want you to suck my tongue_

_Want to shove my cock against yours, Moony, want you to wrap that big hand of yours around us both while I fuck you with my eyes_

_Want you to take my ballsac inside your luscious mouth, take my cock in your mouth, lick me down slow until I’m begging for your finger in my arse, want you to make me beg—_

Remus’s eyes fly open, bleary and green-gold in the darkness. Which is not, Sirius realizes, very dark anymore.

Remus blinks a few times. Then he takes the top of Sirius’s ear between his teeth. A shiver of gold cascades down Sirius’s spine.

“Moony, you’re awake,” he whispers. It would be a whisper even if it didn’t have to be, because Sirius is so far gone with wanting that his voice has stopped working.

“Mmmm,” Remus says drowsily. And then, more distinctly, “Sirius, you’re very hard.” He shifts his hips beneath the blankets, rocking against Sirius’s prick, which is very hard indeed. Like fucking granite, in fact, if granite were achingly hot, and twitching, and practically dripping at the tip. 

“Been thinking of you all night,” Sirius says in his wrecked whisper of a voice.

“Mmmm?” Remus tongues the edge of the ear he’s got hold of. Slips his hand down over Sirius’s ribs. Down over his thigh.

“Thinking,” Sirius rasps, “how much I want you. And about how much I’ve fucked up—I don’t know why you’re still here.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. The last thing he wanted was to start the conversation they’ve wordlessly agreed never to have.

Remus stops biting Sirius’s ear and sits up on one elbow. He looks down at him a moment, then runs his index finger slowly around the edges of Sirius’s lips. The pad of his finger is hot and dry and the touch makes Sirius fight back a sound. He wants to moan it out, desire clotted with the knowledge he could lose this.

“But I am here,” Remus says. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Then he pushes his thumb inside Sirius’s mouth.

The moan breaks out this time as Sirius begins to suck. His mouth fills with saliva and his cock leaks out a bead of moisture. Remus’s thumb presses against his tongue while the other fingers of his hand cup Sirius’s cheek. 

“I’m here,” Remus says, “because the fucked-up thing is over. It truly is, Padfoot.” He pulls his thumb almost out, and Sirius’s cheeks cave in as he sucks hard to make it stay. “If I didn’t let things be over once they’ve ended, I’d never make it from one moon to the next.”

Remus pushes his thumb back in and wraps his other hand around Sirius’s cock. Sirius feels himself actually _pulse_ in Remus’s hand. As if it’s not just his cock but his heart that Remus has got hold of. Because he has.

“But also.” Remus frowns a little, adjusts his hand so that he’s got a better grip. But not stroking Sirius yet. Just holding. “Even if I weren’t so...schooled by the moon, I...I’d find another way to stay here. Because you. Because Us. This.”

He pushes his thumb deeper in. Sirius bites down gently.

“I think,” Remus says, “that you might be the one thing I wouldn’t be able to--to let be over. Sirius—you know that, right?”

Sirius hesitates, then nods. Yes. When he lets himself, he does know it: Remus Lupin loves him. And something more besides. He can feel it in the way Remus is holding his cock. Almost as if it’s himself he’s holding, that’s how certain it feels, like that hand will always be there when he needs it. To pleasure him and comfort him and love him and bring him over the edge and back again and know just how he wants to be touched, because something in the deepest part of their magic is connected. 

Sirius reaches for Remus’s hand, makes himself drag Moony’s big wet knuckles off his tongue.

“I didn’t sleep,” he manages to say. “I was counting the hours until you said I could wake you. Because I promised I wouldn’t. Wake you up, I mean. For sex.”

It’s stupid, but he wants to remind Remus that he _can_ keep his promises, that he can do what Remus has asked of him, especially the things he’s asked for without words. Sirius wants to do all of them, and he will. He’ll do anything really, if it means he can still have this.

“Then it’s lucky that I woke up on my own.” Remus’s pupils bloom darkly. “For sex, I mean. With you.”

He begins to move his hand then. Up Sirius’s cock, then sliding back the foreskin, gliding his thumb over the slit of Sirius’s prick and spreading that pearl of moisture around. Then pressing just a little so that Sirius leaks more. A moan leaks from him too. Remus works his hand, watching Sirius while he does it. Stripping his cock, stripping his heart. Stripping all of him. Looking at him like no one ever has. Not even Regulus. Not even James.

“Moony. I want—” But Sirius doesn’t know how to say what he wants. It’s too big. “—All of you,” he finishes, and Remus is on him, wrapping his mouth around Sirius’s prick and cupping his arse cheeks, spreading him open. Then Sirius feels Moony’s newly-mastered wandless spell tingling inside him, the particular hot-gold shiver of Moony’s magic, coating him and getting him ready. He flexes in anticipation, wanting Moony’s finger.

And then it’s there, brushing over the most sensitive skin he has, brushing over the tight wrinkle of his hole. It’s so intense Sirius thinks he might burst with it, and yet he wants more, he wants Moony’s finger inside, he _wants_ to burst. Open. For Moony’s finger. It’s only been a few weeks since they’ve started doing this part of it together, the inside part, and it’s still a little scary how good it makes him feel, how crazy fucking good it is when Moony strokes inside his arsehole. 

Sirius takes hold of his arse cheeks himself and spreads them apart to make Remus go faster. He feels himself clench in anticipation and then open and then Moony’s finger is in and he squeezes closed again, to take Moony in and keep him there. Keep him forever curling his finger over that spot that makes Sirius whimper and shake with how good it is to be the spot that Moony’s finger is stroking. 

Stroking with the smallest beckoning gesture: _Come here._

_Come here, Sirius._

Oh but he is here. He will come here. He will keep coming here. He will come.

“Moony...please...your thumb—”

Remus’s other hand appears beside Sirius’s jaw. Sirius turns his head and takes in Remus’s thumb again so he can suck it. It’s crazy how much he likes this too. The sucking grounds him, puts all of it together into one beautiful stream of sensation pouring through him. Moony sucking his cock, him sucking Moony’s thumb, his arsehole sucking Moony’s finger, and that finger inside him stroking him so right that the hair on his scalp goes electric, his toes fold, and his magic flares hot and wild. It’s on the edge of painful, not because it hurts, but because how good it is, and how much, and _everywhere_. Remus loving all of him, all of his holes.

And then Remus's spit-wet thumb is slipping free from Sirius’s mouth, sliding down to his bollocks and teasing the hair of his sac. Then wrapping around his cock while Remus's mouth works over the head of it. While Remus’s other hand fingerfucks him, curling that finger inside him again and again, beckoning Sirius closer still until Sirius is flying, bucking off the bed.

“I love to watch you come,” Remus murmurs, and at those words Sirius does. Remus holds his lips against the spurting tip as Sirius bucks and cries, all of him coming for Remus as their magic arcs back and forth between them. He spills into Remus’s mouth while Remus’s finger pulls inside him, drawing his orgasm on and on until Sirius falls back against the pillows panting.

When he’s caught his breath enough to raise his head, Remus’s mouth around his cock is smiling up at him. Remus’s eyes smile up at him too. As if he’s loved. 

He is loved. Sirius reaches down and pulls his lover up on top of him. He licks a thin ribbon of white off Remus’s chin because he’s a dog all the time really, and with Remus he no longer has to pretend he’s not. He licks up the stripe of come and finds he tastes sweeter than he’d thought, not at all what he’d expect after spending the night steeping in past regrets. But he’s also spent the night lying in Remus’s arms. That’s where the sweetness comes from. 

Suddenly there’s a murmur and a rustle somewhere in the bed, a shush and crunch of leaves as if they’re in the forest. It takes Sirius a moment to remember it’s his watch talking; he’s charmed the alarm to play sounds that make him happy. 

But right now he’s already happy. Remus loves him, and has made love to him, and is lying on top of him, holding him close: he doesn’t need the watch’s magic. He finds the watch buried in the sheets and flicks off the forest noises. Then, on impulse, he drops it on the floor. It’s not like he needs any more House of Black reminders anyway; maybe he won’t wear the watch after all. 

Or maybe he’ll find a way to charm it so that the watch’s hands stand still whenever he and Remus are together. Then maybe Remus could remind him to use it, could call him back from the terrible edges of his drowning mind just by saying, “Padfoot, check what time it is.”

And Sirius could look, first at the stopped hands of the watch, and then at Remus. At the constellations of scars and freckles and the bright gold flecks in Remus’s eyes. Because it’s Remus’s face that will tell him, and better than any watch can, that it’s only ever now.


End file.
